


Ghost of Christmas Past

by SpaceNightwing



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bruce is trying, Christmas Fluff, Family of Choice, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Some Swearing, i make it up as I go, kinda canon?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 15:22:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17388854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceNightwing/pseuds/SpaceNightwing
Summary: Bruce hates Christmas. Why? Well, watching your parents die kind of takes the magic out of the holidays. But his children teach him there is more to the season of giving then memories. Many even make some new memories of their own.





	Ghost of Christmas Past

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the 2018 stocking stuffing event on tumblr. Due to personal events, I missed the deadline, but as I say, better late then never!  
> For Nerdkate88’s prompt: Frist Christmases  
> Sorry for the delay, and merry late Christmas!

The world was so small when Bruce was seven years old. Everything bad and painful was sugar coated to the point of being a distant thought. The Fourth of July was a magical display of lights and colors. Thanksgiving was a brilliant kaleidoscope of tastes and smiles from family young and old. And Christmas… Christmas was white magic that fluttered in the air, golden and colored lights in the distance, and the wonder of Santa.

Then Bruce turned eight, and the world lost all traces of magic.

He remembers the last Christmas he had with his parents. Memories that old don’t normally last a lifetime, especially when your hobbies result in frequent concussions. But even almost 30 years later, Bruce can still smell the cinnamon crisp air, feel the warmth of the hearth, see the love is his mother’s face, hear the orchestra’s violins sing out _Carol of the Bells_ during the Wayne charity Christmas Gala parties. That magic was ripped away from him with the single pull of a trigger.

Christmas was nothing more than a painful nightmare after that. Every year, when he thought he was getting just a little bit stronger, this god forsaken holiday would spend a full month and a half advertising BLACK FRIDAY DEALS GET YOUR CHRISTMAS SHOPPING DONE NOW and JINGLE JINGLE JINGLE ROCK. He couldn’t even leave the country to escape it. The Christmas charity gala, Santa Clause, _It’s a Wonderful Life_ , every aspect of this season just pulled that trigger over and over and over again.

But then, something happened. A boy, high above, flying in the rafters of a circus, watched the single greatest horror a child can experience. Bruce’s horror.

A week. Ten days tops. That was all the time Bruce expected Dick to be at the Manor. But this little boy, this enduring child, had something that Bruce needed in his life. To this day, he still doesn’t know what that is. Maybe it was the boy’s determination to find his parents killer. Maybe Bruce was envious of the child’s ability to still see magic in the world even after it have been taken away from him.

So when November started to roll around and Dick was still living at the Manor, things had to change. It was Alfred that forced the changes. After all, Dick deserved the Christmas he wanted, did he not?

At first, the old butler suggested settle changes: allowing Christmas music, putting up a tree, making Christmas cookies. Nothing too extreme. But Bruce didn’t allow a single reminded of Christmas in the Manor. Even when Dick came home from school with a big smile, showing off his Christmas cookies made in home ec class, Bruce wanted nothing to do with it. He did end up getting Dick a present: a new Robin belt with a new grappling hook. Dick did love the present - being Robin was still new and exciting - but according to Alfred, that didn’t count. The equipment want needed regardless of the time of year, and it wasn’t even wrapped. That year, Christmas came and went, and Dick felt like he was living in a real life version of _A Christmas Carol._

 

*** One year later ***

Alfred was fed up. November was approaching yet again, and Bruce was starting to show his hostile attitudes. If the old man had anything to do with it, Bruce was not going to ruin the holiday season for the young ward in the Manor. Again. The day after Halloween, Alfred found Bruce at the Bat computer after a partially long patrol night.  “Master Bruce, may I have a word with you?”

At 3am, the man was just ready to finish the report and go to bed. But for all the shit Batman had put him though, Alfred deserved to be heard. “What is it Alfred?”

“Well, it is approaching that time of year again-”

“Don’t start.” Bruce snapped.

“I beg your pardon?”

Bruce looked at Alfred from the corner of his eye. He hadn’t meant to insult his father figure. He just _really_ didn’t want to have this conversation.

Rather than dwell on the interruption, Bruce simply asked “what about this time of year?”

“I think it’s high time Christmas was celebrated in the Manor again.”

“No.”

“Master Bru-”

“No Alfred. That’s the end of it.”

“Master Bruce! You will not speak to me in that tone. I will say my piece, then you will respond. I raised you better then that.”

Bruce huffed. There was no getting out of this, no matter how much he wanted to drop it. But the sooner he took the conversation seriously the sooner he could return to his report. So he turned from the computer to face the old butler.

“I’m listening.”

The thick silence carried on for a beat longer than necessary. Finally, Alfred said, “you have every right to do what makes you happy. So does Master Dick. What makes him happy is celebrating the Christmas season. And as his guardian, it is your responsibility and obligation to provide for him.”

“Are you suggesting I don’t provide for him?”

“I know you provide for him, that has never been in question. What I am concerned about is his emotional well being.”

“Meaning?”

“To put it bluntly, Master Bruce, you are not exactly the most tactful individual.” Bruce humed. Alfred wasn’t wrong, and he know it. “Master Dick loves you. And I believe you love him. He may be fighting the underbelly of Gotham’s worst circle, but he is still a child. He deserves a Christmas.”

“He deserves, hum?” Bruce asked. Dick was his son, of course he loved him. But did he necessarily _deserve_ anything? Martha and Thomas Wayne didn’t deserve to be shot. Bruce didn’t deserve to watch. Mary Loyd and John Grayson didn’t deserve sabotage. Dick didn’t deserve to watch. Every single victim Batman and Robin saved on the streets didn’t  deserve _half_ the shit Gotham threw at them. And yet, shit just kept happening. “You know as well as I do that no one deserves anything. Dick _has_ to know that.”

“He does. He sees and fights the same horrors you do. Do that not mean he, more so than most children, he needs some joy?” Bruce was taken aback. It wasn’t often that Alfred challenged Bruce outright. In fact, the only times he did, it involved Dick in one way or another. And most of the time, he was right. “I’m not asking you to reinstate the charity gala. I am suggestion that, maybe in this season of giving and family, your son may want more than a grapple hook. Ponder that, Master Bruce.” With that, Alfred left Bruce to his own devices.

_Damn you, Alfred,_ Bruce thought. He knew the older man was right. If he was being honest, he wanted to give Dick a good Christmas. After watching the boy’s disappointment last year, he’d been thinking of ways to change this year. But… every time he even thought of trying to have a Christmas, he could all but feel that bullet ripping into his own chest, feel the sucky blood on his hands.

_How Dick?_ Bruce asked himself. _How?_

 

***December 20th, 2am ***

Dick couldn’t help it. He knew how Bruce felt about Christmas, the guy wasn’t exactly settle. But Dick wasn’t Bruce, and Christmas was magical, not matter what Bruce said. He was curled up under his blanks, reading _‘Twas the Night Before Christmas_. This story was more than a book. It was one of the few things he was able to bring with him from Haly's Circus. It came from his mother’s mother, and he had refused to leave his home without it. Unlike Bruce, Dick didn’t like pretending that his parents never existed. It was Zucco that ruined Christmas, but his family made it special, whether they were there or not. They existed between the pages of Clement C. Moore’s poem.

He was so engrossed in visions of sugar plums, he didn’t even hear the click of the door opening and closing. He didn’t even notice until the comforters was pulled back and he found himself face to face with Bruce. Startled, he rushed to hide his the book. “Bruce! I didn’t, how did, what?”

Bruce cracked the smallest of smiles. “You okay chum?”

“Yeah. I just didn’t hear you come in. Why aren’t you asleep?”

“What are you reading?” Bruce asked, ignoring the question.

“Nothing.” Bruce huffed, pulling the book out from under Dick’s pillow. “I’m sorry,” Dick said shyly. “I know you don’t like Christmas. But… I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to apologize for liking Christmas Dick.” Dick stared at his father figure, awestruck. That wasn’t normal for Bruce. “This was your dad’s, right?”

“Mom’s. Grandma’s actually.”

Bruce stared at the book for a long time. Finally, he looked Dick in the eye and said “what do you think about skipping school tomorrow?”

“Wait, what?”

“Well, break starts the next day. What would you say if we started break early?”

“I’d say duh! But why?”

Again, Bruce didn’t answer. He looked at the book again, took a deep breath, and got up to leave the room. “Get some sleep chum. I’ll see you in the morning.” Dick nodded as Bruce got up to leave, taking the book with him.

The next day was… awkward. After sleeping late, Bruce went to wake up his son. They spent the morning together, having breakfast and practicing Krav Maga. They then spend the day attempting to make sugar cookies, a food normally forbin in a household of crime fighters. Without Alfred’s touch, they were dry and tasted more of flower then sugar.

Honestly, the baking  hurt Bruce more than he wanted to admit. He couldn't help but remember the last time he tried to make cookies, decades ago. He was seven, his father and Alfred were helping him make cookies for his classes Christmas party.

But Alfred was right. It was time to stop living in the past. Whatever form that took, for Dick, he could at least try.

 

***8 years later***

Christmas meant little to Jason. To a kid on the streets, Christmas was just another cold day on the calendar in December. He wasn’t one to get his hopes up, but moving into a billionaire home probably did come with some perks. He wasn’t necessarily looking forward to Christmas, but it had to be better than getting donated food from a church on Christmas.

He wasn’t wrong, but he wasn’t exactly right either. Bruce didn’t like Christmas, that much was obvious. The Christmas dinner was definitely better than church donation food, but it wasn’t exactly Christmassy either. After a normal dinner of chicken and veggies, Batman and Robin set out into the bitter cold night. Hours of kicking ass and taking names found them on a stakeout atop the mall roof. Looking down through the skylight, Jason could just make out Santa’s chair and slay. He was five when he stopped believing in Santa, but sights of magic always seemed to amaze him. On the street below, Bruce could hear carols bringing good tidings to you and your kin.

“Lets go,” Bruce said abruptly.

“What about the stakeout?” Jason demanded.

“We can do it from a different vantage point.”

It didn’t take long for Jason to put two and two together. He didn’t move from his spot. “What’s with you?”

Bruce turned to face the young Jason. “Excuse me?”

“You face the worst Gotham has to offer on a nightly basis, but you can’t handle a little Christmas song?”

“It has nothing to do with the song.”

“Really?” Jason said, raising an eyebrow behind his mask. “Then what is it?”

“The in-tell suggested the mall, but that doesn’t mean Nygma is here for sure.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it. Don’t treat me like a kid.”

“You are a kid.”

“And a vigilante. You can’t have it both ways.”

Bruce released a deep breath. Way was Jason so much more stubborn than Dick? “Lets go Robin.”

Jason sighed. He knew he wasn’t going to win this one, at least not here. So he followed the Bat and left the music far in the distance.

***

“Do you have a favorite Christmas song?” Jason asked. It was the next day, but Jason couldn’t get last night’s patrol out of his head. The ‘goddamn Batman’ was scared off by music.

“Excuse me?”

“Do you have a favorite Christmas song?” Jason repeated, knowing he was poking a sleeping bear.

“No, “ Bruce said hashly.

“Did you used to?”

“No.”

Jason huffed. “Come on. Everyone has a favorite Christmas song.”

“Really? Everyone?”

“Well, everyone that likes to have fun.”

Bruce smirked. “I like to have fun.”

“That's literally the best joke you’ve told all year.” At that, Bruce actually laughed. “Come on B. You didn’t like Christmas as a kid?”

Bruce stopped short. Had he been asked this question years ago, he would have left the room entirely. But, he’s spent the last few years ever so slowly getting reacquainted with Christmas. He’s made cookies with Dick every year, and even wrapped some presents for his son. So, what was the harm in opening that box again? “Drummer Boy.”

“Really? That’s an old one.”

“My mother sang it every year…”

That's as far as he could go. Abruptly, Bruce left the room, leaving Jason to ponder the information.

Hours later, Jason found Bruce in the study. He didn’t announce his arrival. He connected his bluetooth phone to a nearby speaker. In seconds, Spotfy was playing _Pentatonix’s_ _Drummer Boy._ He left the room, leaving the music to play out. After the last “rum pum pum pum” carried out, Carol of the Bells started, then Hallelujah. The songs kept playing, and Bruce didn’t move to stop them.

 

***2 years later***

Jason’s murder stopped whatever progress Bruce was making in celebrating Christmas. Jason didn’t deserve his end. Deserve… that damn word.

Tim knew how sensitive the situation was. Dick lost a brother, Bruce lost a son, Alfred lost a grandson. The very last thing he ever wanted to do was replace Jason. He knew what was at stake. But if nothing changed, Batman really was going to get himself killed. Batman needed a Robin. Tim didn’t want to replace Jason. Bruce needed help. Tim was willing to give it. How in the world did he balance that?

 

***2 years later***

“No!” Alfred yelled. “Master Tim you are not going out on patrol. That is final.”

“Come on Alfe,” Tim said through a scratchy voice. “I’m good!”

“Absolutely not. You have a fever of 37 degrees celsius. You cannot go out tonight.”

Tim rolled his eyes. Sure, he felt like crap. But he needed to go kick some ass. Nothing feels better then kicking the snot out of some drug dealer! “Bruce disgarees.”

“That’s funny,” Bruce said under his breath as he put the cowl.

“W-what?”

“Tim. You’re sick. You’re not coming out with me.”

“Bru-”

“Go upstairs. Get some sleep. I'll see you in a few hours.”

Alfred let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in. “Thank you, Master Bruce.”

“Fine,” Tim muttered, then immediately coughed for the millionth time that day. He headed to the locker rooms to change out of the Robin uniform.

***

Tim wasn’t happy. While Bruce was out there tracking down Clayface, he was stuck in the Manor’s den, watching Freeform’s 25 days of Christmas for the 16th time this week. Sure, Christmas specials are, well, special. But one can only watch the Grinch smile that awful smile so many times.

“Yo!” Tim turned around to find Dick standing in the doorway. “What’s Robin doing staying in on a Clayface mission?” Tim answered his brother by letting out a deep, moist cough. “Yuck! When that start?”

“Last week. A bug has been going around school.”

“Damn. That sucks, especially now.”

“What about now?”

“Dude, seriously? It’s the holidays.”

Tim laughed. “Well, everywhere but here. Christmas isn’t a thing in the Manor.’

Dick signed. “According to Alfred, it used to be. And when I lived here, it kind of was.”

“What do you mean?”

Dick rubbed the back of his neck. As different as he tried to be from Bruce, in some aspects, they were more similar than he cared to admit. After Jason was killed, Christmas kind of stopped being a priority for him. “Well, Bruce and I started making cookies every year. Then he’d read _Twas the Night Before Christmas._ Jason even got him to listen to Christmas music. We never had a tree, but it was Christmas in our own way.”

Tim was silent as he took in the information. He’d been in the Manor for two years, and any mention of Christmas sent Bruce running from a room. The idea of Bruce enjoying Christmas music was completely foreign to him. Finally, curiosity got the best of him. “What are you doing here?”

“B needed some backup with Clayface-”

“Is he okay?!”

“He’s fine, relax. I came up with some tech to pinpoint Clayface in a crowd of thousands. He needed the tech, so I came by to drop it off.”

“Oh,” Tim humed, then coughed. He hated that Robin couldn’t help Batman when he needed it. After getting his breath again, he asked “you headed out?”

“That depends. Whatcha watching?”

Tim laughed. “You tell me. I’ve been zoned out.”

Dick crossed the room in three strides and took the remote. He scrolled through the channels until he found his favorite movie: Elf.

Tim groaned out loud. “No! I’m so done with this movie.”

“Well I’m not, and you said ‘you tell me.’ I win.”

“I hate you,” Tim said halfheartedly.

As Will Ferrell was walking the streets of New York City for the very first time, the brothers heard a voice from the door. “Why the hell is that man eating gum off a subway railing?”

The boys turned to see Bruce standing in the doorway in his post portal robes. In a completely natural voice, Dick said “because it’s free candy,” as if there was nothing wrong with post-chewed gum.

Visibly confused, Bruce stepped into the room. “What are you watching?”

“Elf,” Tim said, then coughed, followed by a sneeze.

“What’s it about?”

Straight faced, Dick said, “A guy raised by Santa’s elves learns that he’s human. So he goes to New York to find his dad.”

Bruce looks hard at the TV, watching Will Ferrell run circles around a rotating door. “You couldn’t pay me enough to do that,” he muttered under his breath.

“Now _that’s_ an image!” Dick yelled.

“I’ll pay you to do that!” Tim yelled over Dick.

Bruce ignored them, in favor of watching Buddy the Elf discover the wonders of New York. “You liking this movie, Bruce?”

“Absolutely not. It’s absurd.”

“It’s comedy gold.” Tim put in.

“No.”

“Prove us wrong,” Dick said, egging Bruce on. At this point, Bruce was invested in Elf, whether he knew it or not. It was Dick’s mission to get Bruce to watch the full thing.

Bruce looked to Dick. “What?”

“We’ll start it over. When it’s done, we compare notes and decide if it’s comedy gold or ‘absolutely absurd.’ Deal?”

Bruce knew watching this movie was a waste of time. But at the same time, he couldn't remember the last time he had quality time with both of his boys. Why not at the very least try humor his eldest?

In the end, the movie was worse than absurd. It was asinine. Its boys disagreed.

 

***6 years later***

Damian hated Christmas. Well, he didn’t hate it, per say, but it he didn’t like it. He’d spent two Christmases in the Manor. His first was… tense. He didn’t understand his classmates when they spoke of a fat man in a red suit coming down a chimney to leave presents under a dead tree. Nothing about that sentence was logical.

After living with Grayson for a few years while Bruce was lost to time, he started to understand. Kind of. The man seemed determined to give Damian “the Christmas he deserved!” whatever that meant. In apparently involved presents, sugar, charity work, sugar, the same twenty songs every day, sugar, the same six movies every week, sugar, trees, and more sugar. Did he mention sugar?

Then Tim found Bruce lost in time and Damian lived with Bruce again. After a Christmas season came and went without a single sugar, Damian confronted Bruce.

“Where were the cookies?”

“Pardon,” Bruce said, looking up from his news paper.

“Grayson always had cookies during Christmas. You did not. Where were they?”

Bruce was so completely thrown by the question. The holiday season came and went without complaint from his son. Why the sudden outburst. “We just didn't make any. Is that a problem?”

“Grayson says I deserve cookies. There were none. I am wondering if I did something to cause the change.”

Bruce sighed, and made a mental note to talk to Dick about the “deserve” word. But he didn't want to fight with Damian. He had done that enough before he “died.” He'd fought with Jason, with Dick, with Alfred, Clark, Diana, and especially with Damian. Given his line of work, he understood that survival rates was often low. But actually experiencing being gone, then coming back, he just really didn’t want to fight with loved ones anymore. Life was too short. So rather than fight the Christmas issue, he did something he was working on. He was honest. “I didn't think about it. I don’t like Christmas. It reminds me of my parents, so I try to avoid it.”

That answer confused Damian more than he cared to admit. “You avoid the thing that reminds you of what you love the most?”

Bruce smiled. His son had come a long way since Dick had taken him in. He owed Dick the world for that. “I want to avoid the thing that reminds me of what I lost.” That was not the answer Damian was looking for. He turned on his heels in an attempt to escape. “Damian.” Bruce called after him. “Where are you-”

“You’re a coward.”

“Damian!”

“You chose to let a monster from years ago control you, rather than take the love you supposedly had for your parents into the Christmas season. You’re a coward.”

“Damian! That is enough.”

“No Father. You don’t understand. You say you loved them. But you prioritize your suffering over the good they brought. That’s cowardice.”

“Stop calling me a coward.”

“What would you have me call you?”

Bruce closed his eyes tight and pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn’t want to fight. He truly didn’t. “Damian. Christmas just isn’t for me. Drop it.”

“Why?!” Damian was turned now, facing his father head on. He hadn’t realized how important this was to him. Why did cookies lead so this feeling of betrayal? “Todd is alive. I’m alive. Is that not enough for you? What does it take for you to show that we mean something to you?!”

Bruce watched his son carefully. Dick had worked his influence into Damian. The difference was that Damian didn’t hold back. “You know you mean the world to me.”

“Then prove it.”

With that Damian left his father speechless.

 

***1 year later***

Enough. Enough was enough. Over 20 years later, Bruce finally, _finally_ , realized what he was doing. It took all of his children to make him realize, but Damian drive it home. That trigger had controlled his life long enough.

Started December first, the invitations were sent out. Thousands of poinsettias were sent to the Manor. Somehow, Bruce was able to bribe all his boys in one car. They went to a tree farm, where they cut down a 20 foot pine. Through much struggling and several swears, maybe one or two black eyes, the tree was set in the center of the Manor’s biggest ballroom. Orchestras we book, catering was selected, and golden and colored lights light every crevice of the Manor.

On December 24th, the Manor hosted its annual Christmas Eve charity gala for the first time in decades, with a record amount of funds being brought into the Wayne Foundation.

Christmas Day bright presents under the massive tree, homemade cookie and gingerbread houses, _The Polar Express_ , and more food then could be eaten. These activities did not come without growing pains. Everything the family did to partake in an old tradition, Bruce could feel that trigger being pulled. But everytime, he look up to his boys. He thought about all they’d taught him about Christmas over the years. Then of Damian’s words. He controlled his own life, not a memory. Not a trigger.

When the end of the day came around, no one wanted to go home. Not even Jason, whom had to be bribed with $500 to even show up. It was the first real Christmas they’d had together. No one wanted it to end. Everyone gathered around Alfred, the only one strong enough to stand up to the Bat all those years ago, in front of a massive hearthfire.

He opens an extremely old picture book, and began to read, “ _‘‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house. Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse_.”

“Or a bat,” Tim chimed in. Damian punched his arm.

Some things never change. Not even on Christmas.

Well, maybe somethings do.


End file.
